The End of a Thought
by Ruaki
Summary: In the beginning we were strangers and now we stand, together, at the end of a thought. Fills for the DFF kinkmeme. 58 main, 589, 210, slash, gen. Separate warnings within for each story.
1. fugue  x58

DFF Kinkmeme Prompt: Bartz, Squall, piano

**Warnings****: None**

Notes: Takes place during the 012 cycle, some time after Laguna and Squall's heart to heart... ish following the finding of Firion's wild rose, but before the main plot of 012 went down.

_The writing presented here has been slightly altered/corrected/edited from what was submitted to the meme._

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><p><strong>Fugue<strong>

"Hey, over here!"

A clear voice cut through the sheets of silver rain draping over the cloud-darkened moors. Squall looked up, squinting through the water at the blurred figure waving its arms from under the sagging porch of a large, dilapidated building.

With an inward sigh of relief, Squall abandoned his search for shelter along the broken towers and jogged through the muck to join his companion. As if in spite, the rain began to splosh down even harder, half-blinding him. Skidding over mud, he finally broke through the torrent of water spilling from the remains of the porch roof, wiping moisture from his face.

"Just in time too, huh?" Bartz grinned, gesturing at the doorway behind him. "The roof's broken in some places," he continued as Squall pushed open the water-swollen door, swinging on only one rusty hinge, "but it's better than anything else I've seen."

The building must have been someone's villa; the inside was spacious, filled with rotting furnishings half buried in debris and flora. The smell of mold was strong, even with the fresh scent of rain. Chunks of the roof were missing, and loud waterfalls of rain splashed from the holes onto moth-eaten carpet.

Squall trailed after Bartz as the slim young man threaded his way over rotting timber through the rooms.

"Think someone used to live here?" Bartz asked over his shoulder.

"Who knows," Squall said curtly, slightly tense. Manikins wouldn't need shelter from the heavy rain, but the labyrinth of corridors and rooms—made worse by the crumbling walls and sagging ceilings—would give them plenty of places to make an ambush.

"Huh... wonder where they went," the mime replied, rubbing his chin in thought.

Squall didn't bother to answer. The world they were on was strange anyway, a lonely place inhabited by only moogles and manikins. The only thinking, breathing people he had seen had either been a warrior of Cosmos or Chaos. The land itself seemed to carry only the ghosts of civilization—ruins of towns or towers, places like this villa which had evidence of life but none of the memories that gave it meaning.

(_Like the manikins... or even ourselves..._)

"Oh, here we go," Bartz said, veering sharply to the left through a hole in one of the hallways. "It's not so loud in here."

Squall followed, glancing around and privately agreeing. The entire room seemed fairly intact except for a collapsed partition, but water simply trickled down through the tall pile of mortar and wood. The glass windows lining the room's southern wall were all broken or missing; a soft breeze filled with humid rain tugged at the tattered, sun-bleached curtains shielding them.

Other than the broken windows and the hole from which they entered, there was no other entrance. The door was probably buried under the caved-in rubble. Squall approved. This room could be easily defended against ambush and there was enough room to maneuver for the two of them. The debris on the floor was minimal—broken picture frames, clocks, scattered piles of rubble and furniture, something that may have been a rug.

Bartz bounded into the middle of the chamber, rubbing the goosebumps on his arms he looked about with a speculative eye.

The room probably served as a sitting chamber to some forgotten family. Now the floral patterned wallpaper was peeling and cracked, faded by time, revealing the plaster underneath. All the furniture was touched by decay, though not as poorly as the ones in the more damaged rooms. An upright piano set against a wall was sprouting hairs of fungi, the fabric upholstery of its bench bearing hints of former lavishness. A low floor table hunkered off-center in the room, still faithfully supporting the shattered remains of a china tea set.

Squall approached the table, examining it. The wood seemed dry enough, and while it may have been sturdy in the prime of its life, the toll of weather had turned it brittle. He swept the china off it onto the floor with a loud clatter and lifted a foot, smashing it solidly through the top.

Bartz jumped from where he was. "Yikes! Warn someone before you do that!"

"We need a fire." Squall felt that was explanation enough, breaking off the splintered planks into sizable pieces. "Make a fire pit out of those rocks there."

"Oh, good idea! I'm on it!"

Gathering the most suitable pieces of wood, Squall dropped them beside the haphazard pit Bartz had made. Squall was eager to get dry, but he stacked the wood carefully, rearranging the pit as he had been trained. It wouldn't do to burn down their shelter.

"Wish we had some food though," Bartz said sadly, crouching by Squall and wringing the water from his cape. "Didn't find any when I first explored through here."

(_Why did you expect to even find some?_) "Make due until we can catch up with the others," Squall replied. Concentrating, he coaxed a flame from the aged wood with his magic.

"Man! I hope the rain stops soon..."

"You shouldn't have gone running off."

Bartz rocked back on his heels, shaking droplets from his unruly hair. "I was pretty sure I could have reached that chest. That would've put me one over on Zidane, you know."

There was really nothing polite Squall could say to that, since he had spent a good hour extracting a panicking Bartz from the trap the mime had gotten entangled in—a trap which had dangled him off the edge of a cliff that terminated some 100 feet below into a turbulent sea. Squall fed sticks into the baby fire, lips pressed into a thin line. Bartz had been lucky that Laguna had badgered Squall to look for him when the mime hadn't rejoined the group after wandering off.

Squall barely registered Bartz getting to his feet, staring absently at the flicker of flames. The mercenary still remembered how white the mime's face had been when Squall saved him; there was something extremely unsettling about how frightened the almost stupidly fearless Bartz had been.

The growing campfire popped loudly, and Squall shook the image from his head, focusing back on his fire. The flames were high now, adding a splash of color to a room washed grey from the weather. The dry heat clashed with the humid air, but it was better than nothing. Satisfied, Squall stood and stripped off his leather jacket, shaking the moisture from it, grateful it kept some of him dry.

A loud 'plunk' made him jump, and he whirled around with his gunblade flashing into form at the unseen threat, jacket dropping to his feet.

Bartz was standing innocently by the piano, raising his brows as Squall's flat stare settled on him. Then with exaggerated deliberateness, as if he knew he was doing something that would piss the younger man off, Bartz tapped another key.

Indulging in a sigh, Squall put away his weapon. "Quit it. And get over here before you catch a cold." Bartz's thin clothes were soaked through, sticking to his skin and dripping water onto the floor.

Instead of obeying (_why did I think he would listen?_), Bartz sat down at the bench before the piano. It creaked loudly under his slight frame, but didn't collapse the way Squall privately hoped it would. The mime pressed a few more keys. The plonks were harsh. "It still works," he hummed.

"If you're going to fool around, you can take the first watch."

Bartz showed no indication that he had heard, leaping up to tinker with the piano with single-minded determination.

Squall gave up. Sometimes it was better just to chalk up certain things—and certain people—as lost causes.

Stripping off his gloves, the mercenary settled by the fire, pushing wet hair from his face. He could hear the rain still pounding at the roof overhead and hoped that the weight of the water wouldn't cause the rotting timbers to break.

He stretched, bemusedly watching the firelight etch Bartz's shadow onto the walls, shade copying mime as Bartz muttered curses under his breath while he banged around inside the instrument. The contrast from the pale-faced young man clinging to Squall after he had pulled him to safety was as stark as night and day. He wasn't sure why the image had struck him so intensely.

Squall rested an elbow on a knee, chin in hand, feeling cocooned by the sticky air and steady sound of rain. Did Bartz really think he could fix that piano? It seemed as derelict as anything else on this world. Was it even worth saving?

'BLONK!'

Jolted out of his half-doze, Squall rolled to his feet, Revolver flashing into his hand once more, ready to strike.

A few 'plinks' and 'donks' joined the first 'blonk' as Bartz, seated again at the piano, methodically tested every key and the two pedals at its base. A third pedal lay tossed to the side

Squall was busy deciding the best way to destroy the instrument and incapacitate his companion that wouldn't be considered traitorous, when the random banging of keys abruptly transitioned into a lively, upbeat rhythm that shockingly resembled some form of music. Well-performed music, at that.

Squall's first instinct was to tell Bartz to stop; the music was loud, better suited for a party, and there was a likely chance it could draw unwanted attention from their enemies. But the mime seemed ridiculously happy as his fingers danced over the keys with gusto, and it was a far better image to see than the trembling, weak-kneed Bartz from a few hours ago. Was Bartz remembering something from his past?

"Didn't know you played," Squall finally said, relaxing but keeping his gunblade at hand.

"Huh?" Bartz tilted his head back and caught Squall's eyes with a crooked grin, his entire body swaying as he continued to play. "Me neither!"

(_Typical._) "Maybe your heart remembers something your mind doesn't."

"Maybe." Bartz laughed. "I feel like I might remember something—it's really not a big deal though." The tune slowed then, notes cascading through a glissando before falling into the measured beat of a classic waltz. His face softened. "But it doesn't stop me from feeling good when I do remember."

(_Feeling good to remember?_) Squall's brows furrowed slightly. Did Squall remember anything? His name, sure, and how to fight. A few vague and unimportant details about himself. Was there anything worth remembering beyond that? Squall didn't even remember how he had received the scar that marred his face—and he didn't really care.

For some of the other warriors, it was just as important to remember as it was to win the war. But Squall agreed with Bartz—it just wasn't a big deal _to_ remember.

But did it feel _good_ to remember?

Squall blinked then, noticing Bartz's hazel gaze watching him intently. The mime's expression was as carefree as ever, but his look was knowing. Squall scowled, eliciting a gentle smile from Bartz before the latter closed his eyes and lost himself to the music.

(_Whatever_.) Squall didn't need to remember. He wasn't even sure if it would feel _good_ to remember. The past was gone after all. With or without it, he was still Squall and he was still here, on this desolate battlefield fighting a war he didn't fully understand, surrounded by people he had no desire to know any more than necessary—because when it was all over, he'd never see them again. They'd either be dead or returned to their own worlds.

The fact was, in this strange world, the past was gone and the future was uncertain. There was no evidence there ever was a yesterday and tomorrow might never happen.

So that only left now. (_... Heh. That busybody told me something similar, didn't he?_)

With another ripple of notes, the waltz showered into a particularly difficult etude, drawing back Squall's attention. He had no real appreciation for music, but the way the harmony's notes pelted over each other in contrast to the powerful, staccato chords of the melody reminded him of the rain raging outside their musty, humid shelter.

He watched Bartz mimic the storm with the old instrument as Bartz's shadow mimicked Bartz. And Squall realized the warmth he was feeling wasn't from dredged up memories or nostalgia sitting out of his reach, but the here and now. It wasn't about feeling good from remembering memories... it was about the moment of remembrance—the now, spent with the people who triggered the memories and the bond forged from it.

This feeling Bartz was trying to share with him... Squall felt he understood it—just a little.

Bartz's hands suddenly crashed down on the keys, startling Squall out of his reverie as a fit of sneezing shook the mime's slight frame.

(_Idiot_.) Squall shook his head, pointedly settling back down by the fire to ignore Bartz's pathetic sniffling. (_Can't say I didn't warn him._)

.

.

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><p><strong>Notes<strong>:

Squall, you're such a kuudere. orz

Pieces Bartz plays:

1) an extended version of the piece he masters in FF5

2) Chopin's Waltz in C Sharp Minor, Op 64 No 2

3) Etude in A Minor, Op 25 No 11 also by Chopin

This fill was largely inspired by a previous fill from an artist!anon for the same prompt, with Bartz playing an upright piano and a Squall sitting off to the side, listening attentively. The illustration was so positive and filled with a quiet joy that it really struck me as everything I love about 58.

Thank you for reading. C&C always welcome. My usual beta wasn't able to polish this piece, so it's rather rough around the edges.


	2. The Clothes Make the Man  x58

DFF Kinkmeme Prompt (paraphrased): Bartz in the DLC1/Alt4 "Dancer" costume, which makes everyone want him, and Bartz uses it to get the person he wants. Bonus for using Firion's rose somehow

**Warnings****: Sexual harassment**

Notes: 012 cycle, most likely...?

_The writing presented here has been slightly altered/corrected/edited from what was submitted to the meme._

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><p><strong>The Clothes Make the Man<strong>

He sashayed his way into the wet dreams of friends and foe alike; it took only a flick of slim hips to send the less-than-experienced into a dead faint, while leaving the others merely in a state of mind-blowing lust.

He didn't even have to touch them. It was merely the sight of the flaming scarlet shirt—open at the front and knotted at the abdomen, with a wide line of toned flesh bared beneath and around—and all eyes would be snapped upon him. Then came the strut, a stretch of a leg finely sheathed in silken black pants, and even manikins would pause to watch before falling to the sensuous, deadly display of Sword Dance.

In all fairness, there was nothing really spectacular about him, no one trait that could be definitive of his sex god status. If an objective breakdown could be made, this dancer of the wanton was rather ordinary in looks and build. Cute would be a generous conclusion; 'in need of a sandwich' would be a more derisive one.

Ah, but how the clothes made the man! And how the man wore the clothes! The garment was tailored to enhance every swish and step, to accentuate curves where there were none, and to exaggerate size in areas that could benefit from a little exaggeration. It was a holy garment, he was sure, a blessed gift from Cosmos herself.

Despite his comrades dry-humping him for his attention and his foes kidnapping him for deliciously erotic purposes, this snake-hipped arousal bait was more interested in dancing his way into the heart—and pants—of only one person.

...-...-...-...-...-...-...

To the uninitiated, Number Five was just a goofy, skinny kid with a perchance for oversized, stinky yellow fowl and gung-ho grandpas. His personality was easy-going, best characterized as 'mostly harmless,' and no one really took him very seriously.

He certainly wasn't a serious threat when it came to rating polls concerning the ability to send someone into orgasmic throes with just a look alone.

That is, until the fateful day when Bartz had been engaged in another treasure hunting competition with his (usually) heterosexual life-partner, Zidane, around the crumbled foundations of what had once been a sprawling temple. Zidane had the lead, that bastard, but Bartz wasn't one to give up. And there, half buried in the silt, he had found his greatest treasure yet...

_Resting within the shard, a warrior's spirit..._

...-...-...-...-...-...-...

Bartz waited until their little band of plucky heroes (and anti-heroes) stopped for the evening, moving away from the main camp once he was sure no one was watching. The last time he had changed into a new job before doing the research resulted in Zidane never letting him live down the sheep costume.

After double-checking that he was definitely alone among the stunted trees, Bartz changed into his newly acquired job in a burst of sparklies. However, once the twinkles faded, he found himself profoundly disappointed by the change. This new class didn't afford him any cool armor like Kain's or an amazing BFS like Cloud's. He didn't even get a nice hat.

"Borrrrrring," Bartz sighed aloud, plucking at the green sash around his waist with disinterest.

At least, that's what he thought, until he returned to the camp still wearing his new clothes.

...-...-...-...-...-...-...

Once he realized that his new job's abilities were pretty much "smooth moves confuse enemies, leave blood on the dance floor," all sorts of possibilities opened up for Bartz. Not that he had too much of a choice about it—returning to camp the first night resulted in a number of pleas, propositions, and the trauma of seeing Laguna strip himself naked, begging for Bartz's cock. (Not that the guy wasn't that bad looking, but it was Laguna, who acted more like a dad then a potential playmate.)

Chaos's warriors weren't that much better, as "confuse enemies" apparently meant "make them totally horny for you" and sorry sir, but the Emperor was a bit too kinky for Bartz's tastes. (The sun-kissed, shirtless athlete with the feathered bleached hair and the large-eyed slight of a magician with the slight clothing would have been a different matter though...)

Still, it wasn't all that bad. It was now easy to charm his way out of cooking the camp meal and any time that Vaan started up with that "I asked her old she was" story again, Bartz could swoon him into silence with a flick of a wrist. Manikins became just a routine annoyance so he and Zidane were able to focus on more important things—like treasure hunting. (Bartz was always careful to change back to his goofy ol' mime job during those times, else they'd never get anything done.)

Such was the power of the Clothes. He absolutely couldn't wait until they met up with the other team again! Oh, the plan he had. The plan he had! (It seemed appropriate to do a good mimic of that insane clown's laughter here, but Bartz wondered if maybe that would've been just a little too creepy...)

But yeah, he was pretty stoked. He danced a bit in glee—and spent the next twenty minutes running from his lust-crazed teammates.

...-...-...-...-...-...-...

Thankfully, Bartz didn't have to wait long before he got his chance to use his moves on the one person that really mattered.

...-...-...-...-...-...-...

Smoothing the front of his pants, Bartz was ready to put Mission: Tempting Tango into motion.

Actually, should he call it that? He didn't really have any tango plans—well, not the vertical kind, anyway.

Whatever. Either way, he was ready. The power of the Clothes could not be denied, and though he wasn't really sure what would happen when they came off for the Horizontal Tango, it was something he figured he'd worry about later rather than now.

At the moment though, he needed a special touch... This was a very special person, after all. No one would call Boko's feather very sexy (quite the opposite), so that was out, but as Bartz scanned the camp, an idea came to him that was just perfect.

Taking a deep breath, Bartz clapped his cheeks a few times to psyche himself up and bore down on his victim, Flirt Mode On, backed by the 100% Seduction Guarantee of his awesome outfit.

...-...-...-...-...-...-...

Cecil, Firion, and the Onion Knight were standing together by the pitched tents, talking shop. If Firion had any type of spider sense of the incoming danger, he might've been able to run, but by the time he heard Cecil's warning intake of breath, it was too late.

Firion's wide-eyed stare was immediately captured by Bartz's smoldering blue gaze filled with promise, a proper deer-in-headlights expression that spoke volumes of Firion's inexperience. The younger man's dark skin flushed almost as red as Bartz's shirt as the dancer approached with deliberate steps. Beside Firion, Cecil quickly averted his gaze as he understood the peril, reaching over to cover the Onion Knight's own with a hand, much to the confused boy's protest.

Snapping his fingers as he swished, Bartz boldly sidled right up against the weaponsmaster with a knowing smile. Firion's breath hitched as he licked dry lips, eyes darting this way and that, but they always found their way back to Bartz.

"May I borrow this?" Bartz asked in his best mimic of Kain's baritone, even as his hand slid teasingly around Firion's waist to pluck the wild rose from his belt.

A soft 'ah' escaped Firion even as Bartz slithered away, leaving only the lingering presence of his heat seeping through Firion's armor and clothes.

The Onion Knight pried Cecil's fingers from his face, shooting the paladin an irritated glare. "What's going on?"

Cecil let out a long, shaky breath (using Kain's voice was a dirty trick on top of everything else!), glancing at the blankly staring Firion. Or more specifically, glancing at Firion's pants. "A... premature conclusion, it seems..."

...-...-...-...-...-...-...

The objective of Mission: Tempting Tango was sitting on the other side of camp, scraping a whetstone along the gleaming blade of his weapon as Zidane prattled his ear off.

Brimming with all the sexual confidence his amazing outfit from his amazing job gave him, Bartz approached the duo slowly, waiting to draw their attention. It was Zidane that noticed him at first, the genome's welcoming grin freezing in place at the sight of the red shirt and bared skin. Bartz could almost hear the 'oh shit' running through his friend's head.

Squall, rather surprised at the thief's sudden silence, looked up from his gunblade with bemused curiosity, and that was Bartz's cue to get his show on the road.

Bartz's characteristic relaxed posture snapped into a proud puff of his chest, shoulders thrown back as his gaze fixed on Squall's face, using all the Power of the Clothes to hold the younger man's attention. Because this was It, this was all his flirting, his seduction, his confession, all in one, and he'd be damned if Squall would dare look away.

With a faintly naughty smile, Bartz gently settled Firion's rose between his teeth, arms curving above his head as his hips began to gyrate, lifting the heels of his feet to tap a steady staccato beat on the ground. The red-shirted sex god dormant within growled in need and Bartz abandoned himself into that passion as he started to dance, a carnal undulation of limbs caressing the air and each other. As he whirled and swayed his way over to the pair, the claps of his hands and the stamps of his feet rose in intensity and speed, music not unlike the thrust and take of sex.

Zidane watched open-mouthed with undisguised want as the tempo of Bartz's rhythm began to slow as he stopped before Squall, a hand settling on a rocking hip as the other reached out to press against the front of Squall's chest in a possessive gesture.

Bartz was mentally ecstatic at how Squall wasn't protesting at the clear invasion of his personal space and this encouraged him him ever further. Slipping forward, he pushed a leg between Squall's knees, sliding them apart even as he slid between them. Still moving to that languorous, unheard beat, Bartz's hands settled on Squall's broad shoulders, sliding over the furred collar and along the man's neck, thumbs curling along his jaw to turn the scarred face upward.

The smile on Bartz's face was confident and inviting behind the shadow of the rose, his body rolling against Squall's in flagrant invitation, thumbs stroking Squall's skin. Zidane moaned, but it sounded so faraway to the mime, so focused was he on the lines of Squall's body pressing through the thin fabric between them.

The tension was palpable between them and it was all Bartz could do to wait for Squall's reaction, for the mercenary to give in to the Power of the Clothes the way everyone else inevitably did.

After a moment of eternity, Squall reached up, fingers brushing against Bartz's lips as he took the rose from the other's teeth. Squall twirled the flower stem between his fingers, watching the dancer from beneath smoky lashes in what Bartz could only call a coy expression. It thrilled him straight to the groin.

Squall's lips parted, a soft inhale. Bartz's hands, stomach, and cock tightened in anticipation.

"... You realize you look like an idiot, right?"

...-...-...-...-...-...-...

Goofy ol' Bartz threw the crystalline shard of the dancer class as far as he could into the grey sea. "Figures..."

.

.

.

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

I know I really take Firion's inexperience with women out of context and blow it up for humorous purposes. I'm sorry. He's just my favorite one to pick on cause he's so earnest. orz

Also apologies for the abuse of trope names.

For the argument about Bartz having blue eyes in this story, his Freelancer and Dancer outfits change his appearance from his DFF appearance to the one he bore in the original FF5. The eye color is blue.

Thanks for reading! C&C always welcome. My usual beta was not able to polish this piece, so it's rather rough about the edges due to my own clumsy fingers.


	3. At Destiny's End x210

DFF Kinkmeme Prompt (paraphrased): What happens to your ship post-game? Sink or float or...?

**Warnings****: None**

Notes: Post-013.

_The writing presented here has been slightly altered/corrected/edited from what was submitted to the meme._

* * *

><p><strong>At Destiny's End<strong>

The sun was a white ball in the clear sky, roasting his skin-Firion could almost hear the sizzling noise as he fried. He brushed the sweat from his brow, squinting into the light. Gulls swam in the endless blue above, cackling their worship of the sun and sea while enjoying the freedom of midday summer. Later it would probably storm; Firion had been told that it was the season for hurricanes and squalls, where clouds would gather in a heartbeat, empty themselves on the unsuspecting, and dissipate like ghosts. But for now, the sky was clear, so gull and child alike were out in full force to enjoy the day.

Firion was alone though. He had always been a bit of a shrinking violet with strangers, and moving to this new town just heightened his social awkwardness. He had spent days cooped up in their new house, watching the beautiful days pass from his bedroom window. His mother, finally fed up, had ushered him out to make new friends, and so he had tagged along with a group of kids heading to a nearby islet. It was apparently the hangout for the children of the island and the best place to make new friends.

But now that Firion was here, he didn't know what to do. Everyone had their groups and their playmates; he hung around the edges like a ghost. Even when asked to join, he quickly skirted away; for some reason, he felt like he was waiting for the right voice to invite him—the right name...

Avoiding the clusters of children, Firion wandered around and eventually came upon a bridge stretching over the beach below to another smaller islet. It was empty, save a funny-looking tree curving sideways from its center. Even from where Firion stood, he could see the bright, strangely shaped fruit scattered among the green fronds.

Curious, he stepped forward.

"I wouldn't go there if I were you!"

Firion froze mid-stride.

A boy about his age came running up, nut-brown from the sun, hair bleached from chlorine and salt. His face was deadly serious, heightened by the toy sword he held at his side. A band-aid was tacked over one sand-speckled cheek. "No one visits that place unless they want to get beaten by the biggest jerkface on the Island."

"Oh." Firion's eyes were wide. He wasn't a fragile kid and no stranger to playful violence between friends, but he didn't want to start his new life here with an actual fight. His mother would switch him a new rear-end.

Another boy, silver-haired and strangely pale, strode past them, smacking the blond across the back of the head as he went. "What was that, Tidus?"

"He's only telling the truth, Riku," another boy, short and unruly, said with a grin, trailing after the pale one like a puppy.

"You're only agreeing because I beat you at the races again."

"Am not."

"Are too." The duo continued to argue as they crossed the bridge over to the tiny islet.

"Ow..." The blond, Tidus, all smiles and laughter now, winked at Firion as he rubbed the back of his head. "See what I mean?"

Firion glanced back at Tidus. "Yeah..." It was always easier to agree when he had no idea how to react.

The tanned boy's grin was infectious; Firion relaxed despite himself. "Name's Tidus. You're new." It wasn't a question.

Firion nodded. "My family moved here just a bit ago," he explained politely.

Tidus stared at him expectantly. Firion, unsure of what the other boy wanted, stared back. The boy's eyes were a deep ocean blue and bold in his gaze. Firion found it hard to look away.

After a moment of awkward silence and staring, the blond laughed. "Man, you're uptight."

Firion bristled slightly. What was that supposed to mean?

"Aren't you gonna tell me your name, Rosebud?"

"Ro-rosebud?" Where did that come from?

"Mmm, yeah." Tidus gestured with his sword. "The design on your bandana."

Self-consciously, Firion touched the floral-patterned cloth covering his pale hair. It was a gift from the friends he had left behind in Fynn. "My name is Firion," he corrected firmly.

Tidus considered the name, his handsome face screwed in thought as he chewed a thumbnail. "Nah, I think Rosebud fits better," he finally decided, nodding to himself in satisfaction. "It feels more natural."

"Wha—" Firion was quite happy with his own name and it was pretty presumptuous for this stranger to say otherwise. Still, while 'Rosebud' was rather silly, maybe it didn't bother Firion as much as it should have—at least, when Tidus used it.

"So, Rosebud, Wakka and I are gonna play some blitzball. Let's get going!" Tidus grinned again, taking hold of Firion's wrist. His fingers were callused, warm, and so very gentle. The familiarity with which the blond afforded him was just too reassuring—and frightening. "You can cheer me on."

Overwhelmed by the blond's energy, Firion shook his head rapidly, shaking Tidus off. "I think I should go."

"Now? But I came all this way to find you..." Tidus bit his lip, shoulders drooping.

"What?" Firion stared at him uncertainly. "Find me?" He found it a strange choice of words. Why 'find' and not 'get'...?

Tidus suddenly clapped his hands together, bowing his head in apology. "I'm sorry, don't be mad! I'll call you 'Firion, okay?'"

Firion shifted nervously, unsure of what to do; he just wasn't good at making friends. Honestly, he wasn't really objecting to the nickname—only the familiar manner it inferred. Tidus was acting like he had known Firion for more than just these few minutes and that bothered him—because it felt right and the only thing wrong was his own name coming from this particular boy's mouth.

Just about everything about this felt right, like Firion had been anticipating this outcome since he had stepped onto the islet. His gaze dropped down to the other boy's hands, remembering that brief touch of gentle, warm fingers.

The echo of children's laughter reverberated in the silence growing between them.

"Uh... Hey, you okay?" Tidus peered at him, waving a hand in front of Firion's face. "Firion?"

Firion caught sight of those large, expressive eyes, and decided. It really wasn't _that_ bad a nickname—but most importantly, it was his.

"It's fine."

"Huh?"

"I said, it's fine," Firion repeated more loudly, fiddling with his ponytail. "Just... not in front of other people, okay?"

The grin crossing the blond's face was as white-hot as the sun overhead. "Right, right." Tidus laughed a little to himself, rubbing a finger under his nose in an endearingly shy gesture.

Firion watched him with a soft look, absently pressing a hand to his chest. 'I'll always be right here.' Had someone promised him that in some bygone, finished dream? _Did I come all this way to find you too?_

"So... blitzball?" Tidus was now bouncing from one foot to the other.

"I don't know how to play." Firion smiled faintly.

"It's okay, Rosebud, I'm a team on my own," Tidus bragged. He snagged Firion's wrist again. "Prepare to be amazed!"

Firion let himself be pulled along. The world seemed incredibly zen, as if everything was sliding into its rightful place ever since he accepted that ridiculous moniker. "I think I'll be more impressed if you can actually use that sword."

"Oh man, I'm going to make you eat those words!"

Maybe moving to the Island wasn't such a bad thing, Firion realized. He lifted his eyes to the impossibly blue sky, before gazing at his new friend and their arms stretched between them. Yes, his new dream was starting right here.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

In short, my ship finds each other from one crossover to another, bound by the promise of sap. (Until the Heartless come, I guess.)

And once more Firion is too wimpy in my texts. orz

Thanks for reading! C&C always welcome. My beta was unable to provide her services to me for this text, so it's rather lacking in polish.


	4. Fun with Semantics  x589

DFF Kinkmeme Prompt (paraphrased): Gender-bender Zidane. Squall and Bartz find out... how? "Wasn't it obvious?"

**Warnings****: Sexual harassment and molestation**

Notes: 012 cycle, going by who's present and mentioned.

_The writing presented here has been altered/corrected/edited from what was submitted to the meme._

* * *

><p><strong>Fun with Semantics<strong>

"Man, Lightning is _so_ hot."

Bartz glanced over at his friend. They were standing together at Order's Sanctuary, engaging in one of Zidane's favorite past-times: girl-watching.

"Tifa's not bad either though. I'd love to motorboat her twins..."

Bartz followed Zidane's gaze toward the two women. They had their heads bent together, talking quietly; Bartz found it amusing to imagine that they were engaged in a similar, lascivious activity. It's not like there wasn't any shortage of sex for the eyeballs in their merry little group.

Nearly all the team was gathered together at the base for the warriors of Cosmos—a rare moment in itself—and Zidane was enjoying the chance to ogle the tough but sexy Lightning and the tough but sexy Tifa. Bartz had a feeling Zidane had a preference for tough but sexy types.

"But it's Lightning I'd really like to get to _know_, if ya catch my drift. I could show her just how much my tail pleases the ladies."

Bartz rubbed his chin. "Why don't you ask?" He always felt it was better to be upfront about things than to beat around the bush. Squall called it 'crashing headlong into trouble like an asinine fool,' but results were results. He was pretty sure Squall found it hard to disagree, all things considered.

"I already did," Zidane sighed, tail drooping. "She said she was flattered, but wasn't really interested in experimenting."

"Huh?" Bartz blinked. Experimenting_?_ "Well, the tail thing might've been a little weird for her."

"I didn't even get to that before she shot me down," Zidane groaned. "I guess I just don't get the big deal about cock. Er," the genome added quickly, "no offense intended. Guys don't do it for me—believe me, I've _tried_."

"None taken," Bartz hummed. He swung both sides of the fence—he hated limiting his options when it came to pretty faces. It was really too bad about Zidane though. The friendly snuggling and petting was nice, but he was really curious about that tail and the things Zidane bragged could be done with it.

"Being gay sucks when the pickings are so limited. I think Cosmos wants to secretly start a man harem and this war is just an excuse to get as many pretty boys together as possible." Zidane grinned. "I was actually trying to hit on Cecil before I realized he was a dude, can you believe it?"

Bartz nodded—he had heard the story before—before his mind picked up on something unusual. "Wait... gay?"

Zidane tore longing eyes from Lightning. "What?"

"You mean straight."

"What are you talking about?"

"You only like girls," Bartz elaborated.

"Nice observation, Captain Obvious." Zidane punched Bartz in the arm. "Look, I'm gonna go hang out with the other ladies. Try to keep your hands out of Squall's pants while I'm gone, 'kay?"

With a wave, Zidane jogged off.

Bartz then turned to the third member of their group, who had been using all his willpower to ignore the conversation between the other two. "Squall?" the mime asked slowly, trying to mentally puzzle it out. "If Zidane only likes girls, how does that make him gay?"

Squall turned to look at him. And just _looked_. His eyes conveyed whole volumes of exactly what he thought about the question and the conversation preceding it, but per course, Bartz ignored all of that.

"I mean, wouldn't that make him straight?"

"Why are you asking me this." It wasn't a question and it was a definitely a 'we're stopping here, do not collect KP.'

Bartz made a face at Squall's lack of curiosity. "Well, who should I ask?"

"Anyone," Squall replied flatly.

The mime smiled. Squall was so silly sometimes, but it was a charm point Bartz adored about him. "Aren't you 'anyone'?" He said the 'anyone' in an imitation of Squall's low monotone.

"Anyone _else,_" Squall grated.

"O-kay..." Bartz figured he better do as Squall asked before the mercenary revoked his nookie rights.

Luckily, he spotted Firion passing by. "Oh, Firion! Quick question!" Bartz quickly snagged the weaponsmaster by the arm, dragging him over to Squall.

Squall pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What is it, Bartz?" Firion asked politely, even though Bartz had obviously interrupted some previous destination. Bartz always rather liked the young man. Sure, he was a little awkward, but he wasn't the party-killer Squall could be.

"If a guy only likes girls, he's not gay, right?"

"Um..." Firion shifted uncomfortably, his weapons clinking. "Yes, I think that's how it goes...? But sometimes it's not that clear-cut—"

"See?" Bartz turned to Squall triumphantly. "How is Zidane gay then?"

"Why are we still discussing this."

"I'm just saying," explained Bartz patiently, "I think Zidane's got it backwards."

Squall rolled his eyes heavenward. "Whatever."

"Um... actually, Zidane would be gay..." Firion's dark skin flushed faintly. "Although I think the more appropriate term is lesbian..." He trailed off with a cough.

Bartz scratched his head. Firion could be such an innocent virgin sometimes. "No, that's for girls-who-like-girls. Gay for him would be guy-on-guy."

"Eh? What are you talking—" Firion stifled a yelp as Vaan suddenly tackled into him from behind.

"You mean her," the sky pirate corrected from under Firion's elbow, arms wrapped amiably about the taller teenager. "Since Zidane's a girl."

Firion carefully extracted Vaan from his person. "That's right. And since she's into girls, that would make her a... you know." He blushed again.

A slightly strangled noise escaped Squall even as Bartz all but shouted, "A _girl_? Since _when_?"

Vaan tucked his hands behind his head, looking between the mercenary and mime with an expression of pity. "Er, since... always? It wasn't obvious?"

"It's not like she's hiding it," Firion added. "I take it you two didn't know?"

Squall made another funny sound.

"Well... I mean..." Bartz flapped his hands helplessly. "And then the whole... what with the..."

Vaan snorted. "Gotcha—the bikini while she's in trance state was _not_ a clue bat. That's pretty dense—aren't you two her closest friends?"

Bartz stared at the sky pirate suspiciously. "Waaaaait a minute. You're just yanking our chain, aren't you? I mean, there's no way Zidane's a girl. I mean... it's Zidane!"

"Zidane what?" Zidane piped up from behind Bartz. The mime jumped with a cry of surprise before whirling on the genome with grabby hands.

"H-hey, what are you—hahaha, stop that, asshole, it tickles!" Zidane managed to catch Bartz's roving hands. But Bartz continued to fidget within Zidane's grip. "What's wrong with you?"

"Vaan and Firion are saying you're a girl," Bartz pouted.

"... so?"

Squall lightly brushed his fingers on Bartz's arm, a signal for his attention. Bartz glanced quickly at him, and as their eyes met, he could almost hear the 'thunk' as he realized what Squall already had.

"I _am_ a girl, so what's the insult...?"

"Oh." Bartz found he really had nothing he could say to that.

Wait, no, he did actually have something to say. "But you're so _flat_." As if to prove his point, Bartz shook off Zidane's grip and pressed his palms against his—rather, _her_—chest.

Zidane rolled her eyes, swatting away his hands. "Gee, thanks, sorry I'm not Tifa. Now I know what kind of girl _you_ look for." There was a pause as Zidane suddenly realized the implications of what Bartz was actually saying. "Wait... you thought I was a guy?"

Bartz nodded.

Zidane tilted her head, glancing around Bartz at Squall. "Don't tell me. He thought I was a guy too? Mr. Observant, my ass. The hell is wrong with you two?"

"Well, I never thought there'd be _two_ cross-dressing women in my life," Bartz said defensively.

"I'm not cross-dressing, dammit. Just because I don't fight in a battle bikini—"

"Most of the time," Vaan interjected.

"—or fit your ideal image of a woman doesn't mean I'm not a girl. Even _Firion_ here knew I was a girl! Why do you think he can hardly string together five words around me? Seriously, guys."

Firion actually managed to look both affronted and mortified.

"Come on, Firion," Vaan said, stifling a snicker and leading the young man away before Firion proved that one could, in fact, die of embarrassment, "you said you'd show me that new axe technique."

After waving them off, the remaining three stood together in a strange silence. It was unnatural for them and Bartz found he didn't really care for it. Yet it seemed weird for him to break it, considering the gross assumption Bartz and Squall had over their friend's identity.

Finally it was Zidane who spoke. "So..." she said, rocking on her heels and her tail flicking behind her. Bartz frowned. Why was Zidane nervous?

"I really can't believe you two. You're just hopeless."

Bartz laughed sheepishly. "No kidding. I'm sorry, Zidane." Squall nodded in agreement.

"Well..." Zidane again rocked on her heels, "since you two idiots finally realized I'm a girl... you guys aren't gonna get all weird on me, are you?"

"Don't be stupid." Bartz smiled crookedly. "You're still Zidane."

Zidane smiled back.

That was true, after all. Sure, the girl thing did add a whole new level to all those comments Zidane had made whenever Bartz changed jobs or when Squall came back from a dip in a lake with nothing on at all, but Bartz found he really didn't mind. It was Zidane commenting then, just as it was Zidane standing in front of them now. He didn't see why anything would be changing.

From the way Squall was looking off somewhere over their heads—the Squall signal for silent chagrin—Bartz knew that the mercenary didn't quite feel the same way. Bartz mentally shrugged, still optimistic. Between him and Zidane, he was sure they could set Squall at ease—or bully him into it. Whatever.

A thought suddenly occurred to the mime, based on numerous conversations held previously on the subject.

"Hey, I was wondering... if your tail pleases all the ladies, does that mean you use it on yourself too?"

"What of kind of question is that? Of course I do!"

"..." Squall went back to focusing all his willpower on ignoring the conversation between the other two. He found it helpful to think about kittens.

In short, it was business as usual for the mouse, monkey, and lion.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

This one was problematic for me. I took the fill to challenge myself on my preconceptions about gender-bender fics (which I typically do not consume), and I don't think it's a challenge I shall approach again.

However, the story went through a re-edit to see what problematic elements I could possibly further remedy compared to its original meme-posting.

Again, Firion is the guy I pick on. I think I need to do an assertive fill for fandom's favorite chew toy. orz

Anyway. Thanks for reading. C&C are always welcome. My beta was not able to do any polishing for this story, though this one would've benefited the most, I think.


	5. Hakuna Matata  xgen

DFF Kinkmeme Prompt: Laguna tells Auron, and other characters that look older than their age, the secret to looking younger than you are.

**Warnings****: None**

Notes: Takes place pre-012, due to Auron and another character that's DFF non-compliant. They're pretty far along in their cycle.

_The writing presented here has been slightly altered/corrected/edited from what was submitted to the meme._

* * *

><p><strong>Hakuna Matata<strong>

Squall had a nagging vague feeling of deja vu at the exchange taking place a few feet away.

"What, seriously?" Laguna's face was the very picture of comic disbelief as he stared at the grizzled veteran across from him. "You're younger than me? You're kidding!"

Auron managed not to look insulted—or anything other than stoic and resolute. "Do I make jokes?"

"Well, no, but..." Laguna rubbed his chin, staring hard at the the lines creasing Auron's weather-beaten face and the silver frosting the temples of his close cropped hair. If Auron found the scrutiny rude, he said nothing.

Laguna smacked a fist into his palm in sudden revelation. "You know what your problem is?"

Squall could think of quite a few unflattering answers, most of them concerning the cheerful gunner. He had no doubt Auron was probably thinking along similar lines.

"Your problem," Laguna accentuated his words with a wagging finger, "is that you worry too much!"

There was a pause as Auron looked slowly around their tiny camp. Besides Squall, Laguna, and himself, the only other members of their party were a beautiful girl in green and a skinny, goofy-looking kid. The five of them were the final remnants of a cosmic good battling against a vast evil—with nothing less than the very fate of the world resting on their shoulders.

"I don't see what there is to worry about," Auron replied, his caustic tone completely wasted on Laguna.

"Exactly!" the other man said with a laugh. "There's no point in bombing bridges or worrying sheep under the watershed or counting kittens before they've hatched! We just have to keep moving forward with bright smiles on our faces!"

Squall pinched the bridge of his nose. (_He didn't even get a single one of those right.._.)

Nodding sagely to himself, Laguna moved next to Auron, putting an arm about the swordman's shoulders. Auron's face took on a slightly trapped expression. The look was familiar to Squall—he saw it whenever anyone had to deal with Laguna.

"See, the secret to looking fabulously young is..." Laguna paused for dramatic effect, "'Don't worry and be happy!'" He laughed, squeezing Auron's shoulders. "It's always the worrywarts that age so quickly."

"I'd say it would be the ones causing the worry that's the problem," Auron disagreed, but Laguna just barreled on, raising his voice.

"Hey, Rydia!"

The girl in question looked up from her conversation with the skinny boy, her expression polite but wary. "Yes?"

"You're totally younger than you actually look, right?" Laguna asked brightly, and even Squall choked a little on that.

Rydia's smile was sweet, but her companion scooted several inches away. "Why, Sir Laguna, what ever could you be implying?"

"Well, you know," Laguna said with his usual aplomb, "you look like a teenager in full bloom and all," the skinny boy beside Rydia coughed, betraying his thoughts, "but aren't you really twelve or something?"

Rydia measured up the brightly smiling Laguna and the somewhat discomfited Auron trapped under his arm and decided that any barbed wit would just deflect off Laguna's inhuman optimism. "Yes, Sir Laguna, something like that..."

"See?" Laguna squeezed Auron's shoulders again. "It's because she's so serious all the time!"

(_No, it's because she was involved in a time paradox on her own world._) But Squall said nothing because he didn't want to get involved. Rydia's companion patted her on the back, murmuring his condolences.

"Now look at Bartz there!"

At the mention of his name, the skinny boy straightened with a mock salute and toothy grin.

"Take a guess at his age, Auron," Laguna ordered with an equally toothy grin.

The flat stare Auron leveled at his overly friendly companion would've withered wiser men.

But he was dealing with Laguna. "Don't want to?" Laguna hummed after a moment of silence from the other man. "Can you believe he's twenty?"

Rydia blinked at Bartz. "Really? You're older than Squall?" It was hard to keep the disbelief out of her voice.

"Yup!" Bartz puffed his chest out proudly, fists on his hips. "It's cause Squall is such a grump." Bartz poked at his own forehead right between his brows. "That's why he's got a worry line here."

Squall twitched. (_That's a scar, you moron._)

Laguna nodded sagely to himself again. "So you see, Auron, if you'd just smile more and worry less, you'd be able to maintain a youthful outlook both physically and mentally like Bartz and me! It's proven fact!"

Auron said nothing for a long moment. Then he finally shrugged out of Laguna's grasp, standing up. "I'm going to check the perimeter."

Laguna jumped to his feet. "I'll come with you! We can practice smiling! And there's this awesome song I can teach you; it'll help you to always look on the bright side of life!"

Auron rolled his shoulders, the way he did to loosen his muscles right before a fight. But Squall did not feel morally obligated to warn Laguna of the impending danger as the gunner chased after the swordsman.

Rydia shook her head at the departed two. "Sir Laguna doesn't understand the phrase 'fighting a losing battle,' does he?"

"Nope." Bartz grinned. "But you gotta admit, it's easy to forget you're losing when you're just thinking about now. I mean, you don't want to look like Squall there, right? All 'whatever'," he mimicked Squall's monotone and deadpan expression, "with your worry line and everything."

Rydia shot Squall a bemused look. "Bartz isn't really older than you, is he?"

"... yeah, he is."

"We were just talking about it the other day, even!" Bartz smiled crookedly. Squall really didn't want to remember that conversation; it gave him a headache just considering it. "You know, if I was from Squall's home world and went to his school, I would've been his upperclassman. Or... hm, maybe his teacher."

The mime straightened, his face taking on a stern expression as he pointed a finger at Squall. "Now, Mr. Leonhart," Bartz began, affecting an educator's voice, "sit up straight, pay attention, and turn that frown upside-down!"

Rydia's face was sympathetic as Squall rolled his eyes.

"I'll smile when this war is over and we've won."

Bartz and Rydia both blinked at Squall's quiet statement, before Bartz broke out into the biggest brightest grin Squall ever had the misfortune to see on the young man's face.

"It's a promise then!"

(... _Who said anything about a promise?_)

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

Somehow I manage to slip my OTP interacting even into a gen-fic. orz

I heart Rydia like most FF4 fans, so it warmed me to be able to give her even a small part in a DFF story.

Thanks for reading! C&C always welcome. Love to my beta, **Kurumasha**, for being able to beta this fic! The polish is always blinding.


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